"Well...I...Very well, if I'm the one for the job." Kallain said tiredly, not feeling the strength to argue...Besides- a chance to finally create a royal order? This...This could be interesting! Rubbing his temples with his hands, massaging the aftereffects of his own birthday party away slowly as he turned and mindlessly followed the Scribe. A small grimace of pain was all that brewed from the hopeless effort, but as he moved the stiffness in his joints and the fog on his mind faded. Unfortunately, that meant the sharpness of a headache was quite apparent- but all things considered, Kallain had suffered through worse in his life.
"I'm going to be honest Serell, last night is a bit foggy to me and I'm still clearing my head- can you give me a bit of a brief on the situation?" He asked in a hushed tone as they neared the Great Hall. Various guests of the festivities last night passed by, or rather grumbled by, and all warranted different gestures of acknowledgement from Kallain as he progressed to the Great Hall, the task's weight now dawning on him. Some people got nods, others a firm handshake, and yet a few still got the smile of those who were on the inside of far more than a few jokes and a friendly embrace.
"Well, Highness..." Serell began, taking in a short breath as his stride failed to miss a beat. "A farmer, as I said before, has been showing up regularly for visits with your father. The farmer's name is Tamlyn, son of George, and he's a well respected member of the village of Helcomb, a short distance to the east. Each time he comes he spouts nonsense about the goings-ons in the town, and to be quite frank I don't put stock into an ounce of it." this dialogue was concluded and punctuated by Serell's hand on the door handle.
However, it's not up to me what you do with it, Highness, your mother and father are backing you- not me." This seemed to be a discussion the Scribe had partaken in before, but wasn't about to elaborate on at this point. Kallain tilted his head a few times, stretching his neck, before just heaving a weighted sigh.
"This can't be that bad, Serell. I'll see if it's nonsense, and if it is I'll just send him away. If he keeps coming back there's got to be stock in it though, no?" And with a tired smile, the young prince was ushered into the Great Hall, where who he assumed to be Tamlyn son of George was apparently waiting for him; an older, aged, man, whose body was hard and marked by years of work in the field. It was the kind of man who only spoke when something needed to be said- someone who had a job and got it done rather than complained about the work. These kinds of people had an air about them, and this man's was all too familiar to Kallain; his father had the same air of duty about him.
Coming from a low farmer like this, though...now that was odd.
"I'm going to be honest Serell, last night is a bit foggy to me and I'm still clearing my head- can you give me a bit of a brief on the situation?" He asked in a hushed tone as they neared the Great Hall. Various guests of the festivities last night passed by, or rather grumbled by, and all warranted different gestures of acknowledgement from Kallain as he progressed to the Great Hall, the task's weight now dawning on him. Some people got nods, others a firm handshake, and yet a few still got the smile of those who were on the inside of far more than a few jokes and a friendly embrace.
"Well, Highness..." Serell began, taking in a short breath as his stride failed to miss a beat. "A farmer, as I said before, has been showing up regularly for visits with your father. The farmer's name is Tamlyn, son of George, and he's a well respected member of the village of Helcomb, a short distance to the east. Each time he comes he spouts nonsense about the goings-ons in the town, and to be quite frank I don't put stock into an ounce of it." this dialogue was concluded and punctuated by Serell's hand on the door handle.
However, it's not up to me what you do with it, Highness, your mother and father are backing you- not me." This seemed to be a discussion the Scribe had partaken in before, but wasn't about to elaborate on at this point. Kallain tilted his head a few times, stretching his neck, before just heaving a weighted sigh.
"This can't be that bad, Serell. I'll see if it's nonsense, and if it is I'll just send him away. If he keeps coming back there's got to be stock in it though, no?" And with a tired smile, the young prince was ushered into the Great Hall, where who he assumed to be Tamlyn son of George was apparently waiting for him; an older, aged, man, whose body was hard and marked by years of work in the field. It was the kind of man who only spoke when something needed to be said- someone who had a job and got it done rather than complained about the work. These kinds of people had an air about them, and this man's was all too familiar to Kallain; his father had the same air of duty about him.
Coming from a low farmer like this, though...now that was odd.
